


make the most of freedom and of pleasure

by snnycarisi



Category: If We Were Villains - M.L. Rio
Genre: Fix-It, Fluff, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It, Reunions, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:42:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25241845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snnycarisi/pseuds/snnycarisi
Summary: “I love you, you know that?” I whispered, almost forgetting I had a voice. “I still love you and I’ll always love you.”James whimpered like a wounded animal, pressing harder into my embrace as if trying to force our two bodies into becoming one.“Yeah, I know. How could I not?” he replied, voice thick with emotion.
Relationships: James Farrow/Oliver Marks
Comments: 6
Kudos: 69





	make the most of freedom and of pleasure

**Author's Note:**

> I finished this book about a week ago but my god it has been living rent free in my mind and I just couldn't live without answering the questions the ending left for myself. So, yeah, this is very self indulgent but hopefully enjoyable lol.
> 
> Side note-- I despise writing in first person, it really irks me for some reason but I felt this needed it so... if it seems unnatural or slightly off, just be kind I'm trying my best

On the opposite side of the globe to where I’d spent all 36 years of my life, I sat behind the wheel of my rental, frozen, my eyes locked on the front door of the quaint little cottage I’d parked in front of. Inside that door was my happy ending— at least, that’s what I’d been telling myself since arriving back home. But now, now I could see Filippa’s tight-lipped grimace as I told her I was going to look for him. Meredith’s tears of anger and worry as our argument surrounding my leaving climaxed, and out of shame I was forced to sneak out to the airport in the middle of the night while she slept. To look for him. After years of trying, I’d finally found him.

Since my parole, the knowledge that he was still out there somewhere had consumed me. The others worried for me, told me it wasn’t a healthy way to deal with his passing but I knew that wasn’t true. None of them knew him like I knew him.  _ Know  _ him. Because nothing about that letter could convince me he was really gone; it was a sign, it was him calling to me, I knew that for certain. Filippa blamed herself for this obsession of mine, whispered under her breath how if only she had told me sooner, maybe I would be okay again. I wished she wouldn’t. 

But now, now I feared they were right all along. It hadn’t even occurred to me that maybe he really was dead, maybe all this time I had been delusional and the flight I’d taken to Heathrow Airport at two in the morning would be for nothing. I’d knock on the door and some old English man would shoo me away, not knowing a ‘James’ younger than eighty. Or worse, no one would answer.

All of a sudden Alexander’s voice rang through my mind, “I don’t think he wants to be found, Oliver.” and maybe this was true. Maybe he  _ was  _ inside and would simply choose not to open the door to me. I would never know. 

I tried to imagine a world where I’d never see him again and I just can’t do it. One would think I’d been through this already, but honestly I hadn’t. It sounded horribly cheesy, but the only thing that got me through my sentence was knowing that one day we’d be together again, and until now I hadn’t really let go of that. In fairness it wasn’t only James keeping me together, The Bard played his own role in keeping me tied to myself and my dire reality so I didn’t go crazy. But even Shakespeare couldn’t exist in my mind without James anymore; every play brought up the memory of performing with him, learning the lines in our attic room, reciting the prose to each other at every opportunity. Even my bedroom back home where I’d first fell in love with those words had been marred by his presence. 

While my prison sentence may have ended, my life outside wasn’t much better, and his letter kept me functioning, kept me holding on until I could see him again. 

I didn’t know how long I’d been sitting there in the car, but I thought if I sat there any longer I might really lose it.

I approached the door and knocked firmly, ignoring how my hands shook. It felt like an eternity before I heard the sound of footsteps, and then the creak of the door opening.

And there he was, James, right in front of me and looking at me as if  _ I _ were the dead one, the phantom. He was here, he was real. Relief and slight disbelief coursed through me leaving me so light-headed I thought I might collapse right there on the doorstep.

His golden skin was paler than I remembered. It had been longer since he’d been kissed by the Californian sun and I could only assume he’d spent far more time indoors, alone. He looked older, too, closer to his mid forties than thirties, the toll of the last however many years apparent in the deep lines carved into his face. But it struck me deep inside how beautiful he still was, and though I knew I still loved him, feeling that love again almost made tears of joy spring up in my eyes. 

What was new was the expression of utter shock, and I knew I had caught him completely by surprise. A dash of shameful pride welled up within me but was stomped down by his barely audible, “Oliver?”

I felt my cheeks split into a grin so wide I thought it might bleed. It had been so long since I’d smiled like that genuinely and involuntarily. 

“It’s you.” I replied, and that was enough. I fell into his arms the moment he opened them and held him to me tight enough that there was no way to convince myself I was imagining this. 

He smelled the same. It surprised me so much that I even remembered what he smelled like in the first place, I began to weep. Fat tears rolled down my cheeks and my knees buckled, the exhaustion of not having slept in well over twenty-four hours settling in, but James continued to hold me, letting me bury my face in the fabric of his shirt. After a few moments I felt his hands on my face, wiping away my tears. I couldn’t bring myself to meet his eyes, not yet. Instead, I shamelessly let him touch me, reveling in the feeling of letting myself have this. 

I lifted my head to meet his gaze and inside his eyes I saw everything I was feeling, too much to express it aloud. Before I could think better of it, I pressed my lips against his and curled a hand around the back of his neck, toying with the hair resting there. He gasped softly and kissed back, and I felt a dampness on my cheeks I swore was not from my own tears. 

Eventually we pulled apart, still standing at his doorstep embracing, our foreheads pressed together. 

“I love you, you know that?” I whispered, almost forgetting I had a voice. “I still love you and I’ll always love you.”

He whimpered like a wounded animal, pressing harder against me as if trying to force our two bodies into becoming one. 

“Yeah, I know. How could I not?” he replied, voice thick with emotion. After a beat he added, “I love you too, which I would hope you already knew.” 

Strangely enough, I’m not sure I  _ did  _ know that until he said it, but those words coming from his lips were sweeter than anything I could imagine. 

It struck me as odd, then, that neither of us had resorted to reciting verse to each other. No Shakespeare, no Homer or even fucking Agatha Christie, just us. But I figured, verse had gotten us into enough trouble over the years, and for once just being James and Oliver was enough. 

Eventually, we moved from the doorway and fell into bed. It was clumsy and messy as neither of us could quell our tears, but at the same time we found we still knew each other so intimately, it was both exciting and completely unsurprising. Then again, I would have made do with even the worst just for the feeling of his sweet breath grazing my bare skin.

For a long time afterwards we just lay there in his bed while the afternoon sun poured in through the open windows, paining us golden. For the first time, I held him unabashed. He curled into me, head tucked under my chin as I lightly drew patterns across his naked back with my fingertips. 

It was James who eventually broke the silence we both seemed content with; “Do you forgive me?”

He didn’t say what exactly I was supposed to forgive him for— whether it was what happened to Richard or letting me answer for that, or even for faking his own death, he didn’t specify. But I also knew that whether it was for one of these or all of them, it didn’t matter. 

I’d had my time to be angry, plenty of it. And I was angry, trust me when I say that. I was angry that he could even think of leaving me, angry that he could put me through more hurt faced with his potential death than I had already suffered for him, and, on a less selfish note, I was angry that he could have put that weight on Filippa’s shoulders, that he could rip another old friend from Wren’s fragile heart. But I’d also had time (far too much of it) to make peace with that. Now all I felt when I looked down at the tangle of curls marking the top of his head was love, and a joy so pure I thought it damn well made up for the past decade of misery. 

“Yes.” I answered simply, and, because I just couldn’t help it, added, “Now do as the heavens have done, forget your evil and with them forgive  _ yourself _ .”

He chuckled at that, and teasingly pinched my hip before shifting even closer to me. 

“Maybe one day.” James sighed. “Will you stick around to help me?”

It was my turn to laugh softly, and as I did so pressed my lips to the tip of his ear and planted a gentle kiss there, just because I could. 

“Of course. How could I not?”

**Author's Note:**

> kudos and comments are appreciated! 
> 
> find me on [twitter](twitter.com/oliversmarks) and yell about iwwv with me


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